Once upon a time, there was a designer named Hedi Slimane. He designed for a brand called Dior Homme. In the year 2006, some might have said he was the most famous living menswear designer in the world. He was the man whose skinny suits changed the way dandy European men dress today. He was the man Karl Lagerfeld anointed a genius, the man who designed menswear so enticing, it prompted King Karl to lose the weight of three supermodels, just so he could fit into Dior Homme.

He was the man whom The New Yorker felt fit to profile, thus telling all the world the secret to Hedi’s famously slender physique. (Answer? Baby food.)

Last night, I introduced myself to Hedi Slimane in the grocery store.

Me: *walking through frozen foods* La, La, la.

*Hedi Slimane approaches from the wine section.*

Wait. Is that? No. Here? But he sure looks....

A second later, he was close enough to where I could have plucked a hair from his monk man bowl cut and I was sure: I WAS PROXIMATE TO HEDI FUCKING SLIMANE.

He walked past me and I turned on my heels, stalking him at five paces away, all....stalker-like, never taking my eyes away from his low slung black jeans and his black Converse Chucks. Then, he stopped near the fresh herbs! He picked up some prepacked snap peas!

And I just knew I had to make my move right then, before I lost my shit in Monoprix and began calling people saying, “I am proximate to Hedi Fucking Slimane,” but with each passing minute becoming too candyassed to do anything about it.

Me: Excusez-moi? Vous etes créateur?

Him: Oui.

He spoke softly. He didn’t seem bothered. His eyes were so blue! He was so tall!

Okay, I have to say that InStyle magazine writers piss me off, always talking about how good looking the celebrity is like there’s ANYTHING interesting about that AT ALL. But please understand, Hedi is cute.

And so was his boyfriend with the shopping cart.

So then I told him that what he does is magnificent. Magnifique is the cliché French word that you say if you fucking don’t know French. And pardon my French, but I fucking know a few more words than magnifique for fuck’s sake. I pressed on although my heart was beating like a gerbil on speed. He thanked me, calling me mademoiselle. He was being sincere. Encouraged, I told him that I interned at a fashion magazine in Paris. You know, to build up my credentials.

I have shared the same air with stylists! I’m just like you!

I think he could tell by my pained, I’m Proximate to Hedi Slimane and May Just Lose My Shit look that I wasn’t the chatty, lingering type. Nor was I the type that would stroke his hand or snip a lock of his hair. He could risk a little niceness with me, so he very sweetly said it was vraiment gentil of me to say hello and we wished each other good evenings.

I proceeded to wander the aisles as if on psychedelic drugs, so pumped from those fifteen seconds with Hedi so that I forgot everything I was supposed to buy. But I didn’t forget to buy chocolate. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Until.

Hedi got in my zone of proximity a few minutes later as I was paying for my groceries, but it was almost closing time so he had to go to another register. He didn’t have to be told to go to another register like so many of the people that had come behind me. No, he saw the flashing red "X" that signifies a closed register and figured it out all on his own.

God, I owe you big time for that one. I think it would have taken years off my life if I had had to tell Hedi Fucking Slimane that the line ended at me while he hypothetically would have stood there, taking in the assortment of indiscipline that was my shopping basket, wondering what kind of fan of his buys Pringles?

The man eats baby food, people.

(Which is, of course, what made meeting him in a grocery store so very delicious. I'm pretty sure I saw some solids in that cart.)

Saturday I arrived at the University of Florida in Gainesville to visit my 19-year-old sister’s College Experience. I think it’s about time I worked in a uniquely American experience for my French readers and, La Vache!, if a house party at the home of sophomore boys, boys who have dubbed their home "The Squeeze" is not a splendidly American way to spend your Saturday night, I don’t know what is.

Since the theme was “Pajama Party,” there was a little back and forth on how far to take our looks. My sister put a terry cloth robe on top of her normal clothes, while her two friends wore cartoon dinosaur pants with t-shirts. I wore jeans and a jacket and shoes that were "slipper inspired."

It was a little hard to determine where the party was happening since every house on that block had SOME party happening, but The Squeeze was sure to be the best party since when we arrived, it looked like there was no party happening at all. Turns out the “po-po” had been by an hour earlier and sure enough, we were escorted into The Squeeze with much furtive secretness, into a party that was officially slamming.

Which would have been awesome if 80% of the females weren’t dressed in frothy bra and panty sets with high heels like nubile Victoria Secret models. Yee gads.

But perhaps the most interesting was how those particular females decided to stick it to us, yelling “Take your clothes off!” as we stood awkwardly by the door.

The only other part you might want to know about was when a girl in black mesh underwear started doing interpretive dance with a balloon next to our circle. My sister’s friend leaned over the keg and whispered, “I feel like a nun.”

Oh, and there was this other time when a 20-year-old in boxer shorts asked me if I would like to see his nuts. When I scrunched my mouth to the side like I was contemplating it, he laughed uncomfortably, smacked my sister’s back, and staggered away.

That was when I looked at Jennifer’s face, my eyes tearing up, and whispered, THANK YOU, because I knew that she had given me a night that we would be talking about for a long, long time.

And now I have to go because we are going to be late for Art History class. Off to look at slides of Impressionism! Ooh! Ooh! Teacher, teacher! Wanna know what I did over the weekend?

Last October, my French friend Nathan joined my gym in Paris and I was pleased to be present during his first session at my gym, which also had the distinction of being his first time working out at ANY gym EVER. In the period just before he joined, Nathan sent me more than one email saying “I cannot believe I ham joining a sports club!! You know!!?” In my head, his emails have a French accent.

There are certain elliptical machines, the old school models, mostly, where a person can ellipticize any which way he chooses--backwards, forwards, hokey pokey style--and everything works out just fine. But on the newer machines, going backwards makes your arms SHOOT forward and your torso bend down at the exact moment your knees POP up, producing a spectacular effect for onlookers, not unlike witnessing an African tribal dancer or an agitated chicken. I’ll never forget witnessing Nathan’s spidery limbs flail like a possessed marionette, as well as the look of naked panic in his eyes when he asked if he was doing this properly, to which I replied, “You look great!"

I was walking home on the rue de Vaugirard around 10 pm after Chicken Dance Spectacular #2, my second workout with Nathan, when I got a call from my sister. My sister commented that it was late, too late for me to be ANYWHERE buying ANYTHING, so how was it possible that I was not at my apartment drinking and eating like a proper French person?

“Oh well, Nathan and I swung by McDonald’s after the gym,” I told her.

Sometimes it just happens now that I have lived in France for a bit, I’ll find myself saying something like, “I just swung by McDonald’s after the gym” or “Really? You think paté smells like cat food?” in a throwaway manner to a fellow American and then records scratch and the room goes silent and I clear my throat to the sounds of crickets chirping.

“You did WHAT?”

“I went to McDonald’s with Nathan after the gym. Oh Aimee, it’s not like in the US--it’s really good quality and plus, the portions are smaller here,” I explained.

This is the part where those who have spent some time in France chuckle to themselves for two reasons:

1. Learning that the French enjoy McDonald’s is a shocking rite of passage for expats, as memorable as learning that the Mona Lisa is approximately the size of a postage stamp and that President Mitterand had two families (one by wife, one by mistress) and everyone really was just fine with that, really.

2. Once you have learned that the French eat McDonald's and it is actually OK--you will not be tarred and feathered for doing so--you have entered a frightening new realm, a dangerous realm, a realm I have visited a few too many times called Cheeseburger Justification. Don’t pretend like you've never tried to justify the cheeseburger--YOU KNOW YOU HAVE.

Yes, the French have a love affair with McDonald's. My theory has long been that the food is better, the portions more dainty, the special mayonnaise for the fries more refined--otherwise how could the delicate French palette enjoy it? But you want to know what? I’m not sure if it is better. I just tell other Americans that because it seems to reassure them. And I like to see that look on their faces, when their faces go from a horrified manifestation of "IF THE FRENCH LOVE MCDONALD’S THAN GOOD GOD WHAT ELSE MIGHT BE TRUE?" to a more relaxed, “You know, I’ve always said those Egg McMuffins were pretty damn good.”

But I didn’t tell my sister how Nathan Workout #1 ended: in the consumption of kirs (me) and Coca Cola (Nathan) at a nearby café.

You may have heard that half of Northern America was dumped with snow Thursday night, but the other thing that happened is that I got stuck in my boot.

Jen trudged out in the icy mess for beer with a friend whereas I, rockstar that I am, couldn’t be bothered to handle more than Kathy Griffin and my box of Triscuits, if you must know. (Hey, I did go out Tuesday and Wednesday night; that is T-W-O nights in a row! Watch your back, Imaginary Socialite!)

When Jen came home, I was lying on her couch in my pajama top, pants from work, and one knee-high boot.

“Oh noooo!” she said covering her mouth.

“It’s evil, Jen. It is a bad, bad boot.”

And now I would be wearing it until the day I died.

Jen made a valiant effort with a wrench for about twenty minutes, gripping the zipper and pulling up and down until the veins were popping from her head, before blurting, “I’m going to have to cut.” Normally those aren’t words you want to hear from a person with a lager-induced slur, but I didn’t care. We had a sick boot to remove, damn it.

And now I am free. With just a slight rip in the little flap that lies under the zipper, the part that protects your leg. Turns out, you don’t even need that little flap--it’s like a second kidney. Only made in China and marked “Charles David."

I'd cabbed it straight from work to Jen's apartment Wednesday night for story swapping and the key pass-off.

"Not a problem. The karmic implications are good for me--I owe big time."

Apparently Jen, my current host and good friend of my friend Kathleen, traveled with an acting troupe and had the same couch-roaming experience. Now I'm alone in her place with Foxy the cat for the weekend (Jen's visiting her boyfriend). Last week I spent in the company of Miss Puss and Norman Bates--also felines, in case you were worried--in Lake View. Before that, it was the fashion director's place downtown and before that, chez Erin.

Jen's apartment marks my fourth home in less than three weeks. The part of me that loves adventure and travel and seeing how other people do their lives is thrilled.

The part of me that just wants to burn all three suitcases (okay, one is just a small backpack, but it is still a vile bee-otch) is a little less so.

And then there's the part of me that hurts, and I'm not just talking about my sore throat. I slipped on ice and fell flat on my ass on Rush Street last week, leaving a purple mark bigger than a hamburger bun. You would think I'd have better ice radar--my caca alert is always on "high" in Paris and runs pretty foolproof.

But the work, deadlines, all that has been a surprisingly joyful experience. I've been downright chipper on even the longest, most hectic days here. And while I love my life in Paris, I'm definitely riding super high on the little daily thrills at Life Americana--from watching The OC to wheeling a big cart down wide grocery aisles.

But when the taxi dropped me off at my current destination Thursday night, I took one look at those five slick wooden steps leading up to Jen's townhouse and froze (next to my 70 pound suitcase, which I quickly envisioned torching in luggage-bonfire flames.) Still traumatized from the ass-on-ice experience, I groaned under my scarf, I cannot deal with this now.

Then, I decided I didn't have to. I tucked the two smaller bags in the foyer, stashed the biggest suitcase to the side of the stairs, walked straight to the stripmall I'd seen two blocks away and ordered a personal vegetarian pizza. Turns out, you don't always have to do things the hard way--who knew?!

The luggage was still there when I got back and my hands had stopped the hunger shakes enough to tackle icy stairs and Behemoth Valise. Hey, at least with all this luggage hauling I'm getting my biceps in order for that sleeveless, tulip-skirted, sea foam green dress I just bought at Barneys. (There is a wedding in Texas next weekend.) Sleeps on couches, shops at Barneys--yeah, I know. But a girl's gotta treat herself to more than strip mall pizza when she's a night orphan.

Last weekend, I was riding my sister’s bicycle to the bookstore and if I had written that sentence three and a half years ago, when I was still a student in the American university school system, I would have laughed.

Only dorky foreign exchange students ride bicycles, silly.

Ding, ding! Attention! Passing on zee left!

People, riding a bicycle is SO ROCK. Oh, the pleasure I derive, wheeling down the rue de Rivoli, the wind in my hair (you do NOT wear a helmet in Paris, that is something only dorky Americans do, and if my friend’s father reads this-- Frank Christy, a.k.a. Mr. Safety who, concerned with his college-aged daughter's solitary drive to Jacksonville, FL once convinced her to make the trek WITH A FAKE DOG IN HER BACKSEAT-- Mr. Christy, you are flipping out about the helmet thing; that is very kind, and it is going to be okay. Meanwhile, my own parents are probably shrugging and saying, “No helmet? Eh! We've got a couple more where that one came from.”)

But yes, scarf ‘round neck, trench coat of cuteness, hair unencumbered of helmet. But the best, THE BEST, JERRY is when the leaves crunch under your wheels. Or maybe the best is the gabump, gabump, gabump of riding over wooden walking bridges. Yee gads, it’s a tossup. Because life is candy and the sun is a bowl of butter when I’m riding my bicycle and you’d better not kill my buzz or I will pluck your toe-hairs slowly.

Having seen bicycles parked on all the surrounding streets, I find this a bit curious and express this, genuinely. “Oh? Why?”

“Because I am a policeman and I say so, that’s why.”

Blinking, I give him a moment to add some sort of ADULT explanation-- “Midgets in orange jumpsuits will beat the baby squirrels if you park your bike on rue du Mont Thabor, Miss” would have been an improvement-- but instead he just adjusts his little blue hat and says, “I think that I know my métier.”

I think. that I know. my métier.

Sir, you are wearing the hat of a bellboy.

“Can I park it on rue Cambon?”“Of course.””Rue de Rivoli?”“But yes.”“Rue Saint-Honoré?”“Obviously.”

I rattle off a few more surrounding streets waiting for some explanation befitting a man over thirteen, even if it was, “I don’t make the laws ma’am.” Anything but I THINK THAT I KNOW MY METIER.

“So it’s just rue du Mont Thabor that’s forbidden?” Because 'you say so' you bloodless prick, spawn of Satan, thank you very much for ruining my bicycle buzz now would you please mind burning in hell?

He gives an affirmative nod of his little pillbox hatted-head and all I can think to say is, “Oh.”

Then I turn around, wheeling my bicycle in shock, wondering, did that just happen? Did I just go from being stoned on life to popping a blood vessel in 30 seconds? Will living in France cause me permanent neurological damage? Did Adam Gopnick pay him to say that “métier” thing? Can we get a team from Johns Hopkins to take some DNA samples of this perfect specimen of a functionary alien prick, BECAUSE I’M PRETTY SURE EVEN NASA WOULD WANT TO KNOW WHAT MAKES THIS GUY TICK.

Last week, I was at Day One of the Cacharel press sale. At lunch hour.

When I stated this fact to my sister, she said “Why?” and I calmly explained that stores give formidable discounts to people with power, hoping they will wear the clothes to the right places and be seen by the right people. Welcome to the world of marketing, little one.

And she rolled her 18-year-old eyes and said “I know what a press sale is, but why’d they invite YOU?”

They didn’t. They invited my friend. But the more important question is: since when do 18-year-olds from Florida know about press sales?

If the words "day one, press sale, at lunch hour" don’t inspire you to pop a tranquilizer, then you’ve obviously never been to a press sale.

When I arrived, I went to say hello to my friend in the dressing rooms where it was a maelstrom of flying boobs and bras, and a women with no pants on was doing business on her cell phone, stopping only to give birth to kittens when the saleslady returned without her size.

Stepping back into the store, I nearly tripped on a camera crew and I thought, why? For what purpose is this being documented? And what are they doing filming on this side of the curtain? They are so missing all the good kitten-birthing action.

As farce would have it, I soon had my own adorable little mix-up that began with a blouse that I wanted to buy. There was but one left in my size and the saleslady informed me that someone else was currently trying it on.

When the woman-with-the-blouse-of-my-desires emerged from her dressing room, she indicated that she would, indeed, be purchasing said blouse.

The saleslady began walking the item to the register, and it was only when she got TO the register, on the clear other side of the store that she clarified for my benefit, “Madame, I’ve made an error! YOU’RE waiting for the last [my size], and what we've got here is the last [twiggy french girl size, smaller even, than toddler’s clothing].”

Now, I’ve worked in retail off and on for, oh, my entire high school and collegiate career. I’ve seen ALL the Victoria’s Secret training videos, and if I remember correctly, they more or less indicate you will be gagged with g-strings and executed to a slow death of cheap perfume inhalation if you go around calling out sizes for THE ENTIRE STORE AND THEIR CAMERA CREW TO HEAR. There is an etiquette for size discussion and indoor voices are fine and outdoor voices are not, am I RIGHT HERE, LADIES AND METROSEXUAL MEN?

Which is why the saleslady was very, very lucky when all I said was a playful, “Careful there, I’m American. You might give me a complex.”

Without missing a beat, she shot back, “Oh, it’s true. The Americans, you don’t know how to be comfortable with your bodies.” (Bien dans votre peau, literally--“good in your skin.”)

And like a little wooden ball, my sense of humor went skittering to the farthest left-hand rung on the evolution chart, the rung where you scratch under your arms and your back is entirely swathed in monkey hair--the rung where you have no sense of humor, but you know how to TAKE OFFENSE and GRUNT and ATTACK. Which probably explains why the first thing that came to mind was “Yes, if only we Americans could take your lead, maybe we, too, could be 'good' in our Marlboro-smoking, size zero, anorexic, sack-of-bones skin.”

When I was tripping home later, a Cacharel bag jauntily poised in the crook of my arm, I wondered, what would have happened if I’d actually said those words? Would an onlooker have shouted, “Oh, SNAP!” Would there have been a catfight?

I’ve had various odd jobs since moving to France, but one thing I do a lot of is tutoring. I find it inspires a welcome sense of superiority (see Tuesday’s post), pays 2.5 times as much as baby-sitting or dog-sitting, and best of all, doesn't require me to touch any poop.

Last spring and into the summer, I woke up every Saturday morning at 7 a.m. and went to Joinville-le-Pont for English “play sessions” with three brothers--Victor, Ivan, and Frédéric--working individually, at 45-minute intervals. They were nice enough boys, but I think it’s no stretch of the imagination to say that they loathed me. Victor, the oldest at 11, might be listening to the sounds of a neighborhood game of foot wafting through the windows, and there I was grinning at him like a jack-o'-lantern.

Me: How ‘bout another round of I Spy?Victor: Mmmm. I don’t sink so.

*crickets*

I assure you it wasn’t as merry as it sounds.

Ivan and Fred were a bit easier--they found my rendition of The Hokey Pokey inspiring, and when I brought over Monopoly, they thought I had invented the game. But novelty only lasts so long with eight-year-olds until they realize they’re looking at 22 more minutes in lockdown with the crazy singing lady. In retrospect, it seems unfair that I was the only one getting paid in the situation.

But adults, adults who actually want to learn? I can get on board for that. For an hour a day, their attention is mine, just like a child. For an hour a day, I can mold them and lord it around. For an hour a day, I am their superior. Who’s the lady with all the answers? Ding, ding, ding. That would be me.

(This would be a good time for the gods to begin peeling that banana. Also, I like my cream pies with just a hint of vanilla, thanks.)

One woman I tutor, Caroline, is trying to get ahead in the business world by working on her English. She’s a lovely woman whose beauty and demeanor belie her actual age. (There is a sixteen-year-old son.) Most importantly, Caroline has several Oxford BusinessEnglish books, and we’re not expected to play Simon Says.

Tuesday night, I was defining something for her in French--a practice that the Alliance Française might not endorse, but Caroline has requested in order to save time. I started to explain, in French, “imagine if you,” and the informal “tu” just slipped out. And sat there like a floundering, flippy fish on the table. Uncomfortable. Obvious. Wrong.

Allow me to interject that, for the six months I worked at the magazine, I was the nerd using “vous” with all the hip fashion assistants on the phone (my age), until I heard them “tu” me first. And then I still usually stuck with “vous.” But with a woman of Caroline's age, well, there should be no question.

What do you do at this point? Once you’ve left a nice, fat, third-trimester pause? Do you clear your throat, smile, and say “VOUS” meaningfully? That seems so fey. Do you simply excuse yourself, or do you carry on like it never happened?

Me? I excused myself, then carried on, as one must when one is being paid by the hour.

Sunday afternoon, I indulged in the Death By 1,000 Calories of Molten Chocolate Experience that is chocolat chaud in France. First of all, I love that it’s served in a porcelain pitcher. I love that after refilling one’s empty teacup several times, there are dark chocolate streaks clinging to the side of the pristine, white porcelain, like wax drippings on a candle. The chocolate is so thick that, as it begins cooling, it forms a pudding-like skin on top, and I love that, too. Tilting the teacup to your lips, the pudding-skin slips away like quicksilver, leaving one no choice but to finally conquer it with a swoop of a spoon at the end. And the taste? Lest this delve into overtly graphicrealms, (TOO LATE, I KNOW), let me just say that I challenge anyone not to moan at least once.

This particular cocoa nirvana took place at a café on Boulevard Montparnasse, with an American girl à peu près de mon age, whom we’ll call E. After a few hours of sinning together in the form of how many Weight Watchers points I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW, we decided to walk back to my neighborhood for obvious cardiovascular reasons. This amounts to a 30 minute balade from the hustle of Montparnasse area, along the quieter Boulevard Raspail, through the chic Saint Germain des Prés and into the tourist-laden err, colorful Latin Quarter I call home. The typically gray Parisian-winter sky even approached sunniness at several points there. I’m telling you, it was a veritable Maxwell Coffee commercial of an afternoon.

At about the corner of Boulevard Raspail and Rue de Rennes, enter a group of four French men spewing generic come-ons in our direction, INTERRUPTING OUR COFFEE COMMERCIAL IN PARIS MOMENT. E had mentioned to me earlier that, in situations such as this, she always deflects with, “Je suis Findlandaise.” It cracked me up that she pretends to speakan esoteric language, not because it’s implausible (she’s tall with platinum blonde hair--you would totally buy that she's Finnish), but because it says something about French men that SHE HAS OUTLINED SUCH A POLICY IN THE FIRST PLACE.

It wasn’t long before our deliberate silence led one man to say, “Quoi, vous ne parlez pas Francais?” (What, you don’t speak French?) Maybe it was the snicker on his face or the 1,000 grams of sugar coursing through my veins, but this really riled me up because: Dude, I didn’t spend precious years memorizing assigned genders for inanimate objects, and I definitely didn’t learn how to conjugate the stupid SUBJUNCTIVE so you could interrupt my Sunday in Paris Coffee Commercial Moment and TELL ME I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH.

“Si, on parle francais,” I blurted in one breath. After a satisfying pause, I continued to say, “Mais on n’a pas envie de parler avec vous.” (Yes, we speak French, we just don’t have any desire to speak with you).

Watching them scuttle away from behind, E looked at me and said, “Or, that works too.”

I had originally penciled in Saturday as Rug-Buying Day, but instead, I woke up to an entirely unexpected voicemail from the fashion editor of a magazine in Chicago--she was currently in Paris, she would be spending the day resale shopping, would I like to join her?

Tucking my jeans into my most comfortable-yet-chic, flat leather boots, and wrapping a soft, pink and white scarf up to my nose, I soon scrambled downstairs in glee, or as gleefully as is possible on an uneven, spirally, 16th century, WEAR HEELS AT THE RISK OF BREAKING YOUR OWN NECK staircase.

This does not happen to me every weekend, mind you--getting invitations to go shopping with fashion editors--and I can only take it as a sign that THERE ACTUALLY ARE KIND PEOPLE WHO WORK IN FASHION. Especially when one considers that, while interning at this magazine, I was not even remotely involved in the fashion department. (I was a fact checker--wonkishly policing for errors in stories. And let me tell you, in all honesty, I LOVED IT, and you can’t call me a nerd because I JUST TOTALLY BEAT YOU TO IT). But, let’s call this kind editor SJ, and oh yes, let’s also link to her portfolio so you can see how brilliant she is.

You’ll probably want to know what she was wearing (non-metrosexual men, I am so sorry, but I HAVE AN OBLIGATION). Last time I met with SJ, it was at the Café de Flore in March 2004. She was donning Chanel, having come straight from the show. Her coat was black and military-esque if I remember correctly--lots of buttons, très travaillé (very detailed). This is her thing, you see; every fashionable person has a thing, and hers is the coats. She was also wearing orange and white, spectator style high heels. (Yes, this was nearly a year ago, and, why can I remember things like this when I cannot remember my own door code? IT IS A GENETIC DISEASE, PEOPLE). Saturday, SJ wore head-to-toe black right down to her flat Ann Demeulemeester boots.

After kissing hello at our first dépôt-vente in the 16th arrondissement, SJ immediately guided me towards a fur coat that had been swimming on her. It was rather large on me too, which was okay, being that my Official Stance on Fur is, ahem, Officially Forever Waffling (in a department store, I most certainly will not support it, but show me a vintage mink stole and witness the flurry of justifications drop from my mouth like so many glass beads from a broken bracelet).

The saleslady asked if we had seen the price. “C’est très intéressant,” she said. We had seen it, and yes, 90 euros for a gorgeous fur coat is LAUGHABLY ATTRACTIVE. And let me add that this was not a pouffy, wearing-your-mother’s fur coat, as Auntie M captured on a recent, blustery Day in Paris. This was cool fur. Sleek fur. Skinny fur. (Dare I tell you it was made from chèvre? GOAT'S FUR--IT'S CHIC! Who knew?). Thankfully, we did not have to leave it behind. SJ snapped it up for her sister, and we decided to head further downstream on the Seine.

The next store was on a quiet residential street, and we were the only customers. I took this to be an excellent sign, its emptiness belying many a clothing diamond in the rough. It didn’t take us long to find the diamond. Okay, SJ found it--an original André Courreges shift. An original. Courreges. shift. Don’t even get me started on the history, the chic Parisian woman who must have owned that shift and hung out at Le Drugstore (a.k.a. Publicis) in the early 60s.

Hoping not to alarm the saleslady, I said through clenched teeth to SJ, ”it’s so cheap.” And when I say cheap, I mean it was the price of a pair of Gap jeans.

“Try it,” SJ said.

I protested; it looked a bit small, and besides, orange?

“You always have to try,” said SJ The Wise.

And it fit. Damn. it.

When I have a job (see how I haven’t even mentioned the desperate post from yesterday morning, so focused am I on providing you with fabulous shopping content?), maybe I can write about the wardrobe of outrageously chic vintage pieces I will be collecting. But for now, I have to go with items that--dare I say it?--that I need.

For me, vintage shopping is more about bags, belts, costume jewelry, scarves--things that can go with jeans.

And also, have you seen the size of my closet?

“Je vais reflechir,” I said to the sales lady, my throat catching just a little. I'm going to think about it.

The third store we hit was off of the Blvd. Exelmans, still in the 16th arrondissement, and we were certainly not the only customers. There were heaps of designer costume jewelry. Gucci heels, silk Chanel plaid mules with interlocking "CC"s in rhinestones, and good god, the Hermès scarf collection--it was a label whore's paradise.

There were some giddy moments: “Did you see the big Chanel medallion?” I said excitedly to SJ. (Don’t get the wrong impression, I’m more of a Gwyneth than a JLo, but it was JUST. SO. GHETTO. FABULOUS.) There was a leopard print coat in the window that had SJ’s hopes up for a moment, but it turned out to be too large for her. False finds, in the end.

It was getting dark, and we had just made the decision to duck into the corner café for a glass of wine when, in one of those HAWK-eyed moments that surely proves her prowess as a samurai shopper, SJ looks across the street and says “Is that another dépôt-vente?” Before I could open my mouth to tell her I wasn’t wearing my glasses, she was halfway across the street.

It wasn't a dépôt-vente. At first glance, it seemed like any other “overstock” store of its type--selling sale item cast-offs that are there for a reason. But SJ found pieces by a Romanian designer she enjoys, and then, she found a pearly pink Lawrence Steele coat that she adored, but again, it was too big. (I was beginning to see the disadvantages of being as wafer-thin as she).

We zeroed in on the jeans, which spurred a discussion about The Magic that is a nice jean cut. (Are any men still reading this? I'm so sorry). The placement and size of thepocket is essential for the derrière, obviously (not to high, not too low, and SURTOUT not too small).

But this particular French brand fit SJ and I so well, we each bought a pair. And while neither of us found anything vintage for ourselves Saturday, the brand-name of the jeans was, appropriately enough, “Used.”

I can't publish the exact addresses of the stores, being that they are the fruit of SJ’s research, not mine, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me providing the location where we found the jeans (all of the other stores we hit were within walking distance, just wear your glasses and look for the signs saying "dépôt-vente").